That’s NOT What He Meant, Big Brother
Patrick was ten years old at the time. Since he is two years and two days older than me, I was eight on that sunny July 1952 afternoon in our little hometown of Lawler, Iowa.
He was fishing off the roof of our back porch on the east side of the house with a cane pole and bare hook, as was his habit. No night crawler was necessary since the nearest body of water was at least three miles from our home. Brother Pat was ‘pretend fishing’ by trying to grab the clothesline near the southeast corner of our house. Whenever